a door knob.
I see my hand in yours. Only in the shaking motion of a new beginning. Firmly grasped. Securely placed. Smiled face. Tears from the freshness of grace. I see the many different faces. Perfect and placed, like a slide show. These images flip through the torn and weathered pages of my mind. My heart cries out in hopes of Your spirit to find. Please, oh please! It feels so wrong to call you mine if I cannot truly grasp I am Thine’s. Show me. With the waking of day, these words you hear I’ve desperately been needing to say. Interruption to stop my heart from lie’s corruption. Please, oh please! Dressed with the prettiest of lace and the heaviest of fear’s hesitation, how do I open your invitation? Your throne room. I cannot enter, for these arms, these arms Jesus, do you see these arms?, they have become each a tiny splinter. To grasp the door knob, I cannot comprehend in mind, in strength. Gasping for the grasp, the last page in my weathered mind displayed… Your body. Beaten to atrocities. Stretched to the utmost of lengths. Suddenly my five shaking fingers. Found, while in door-knob-cupped shape, the grasp of Your strength.